


dinner at eight

by vallierdetilly



Category: Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, Gen, Herr Robel is MEAN, M/M, also Anna is of Japanese heritage because i say so!!!, hernst, it is because i am also highly emotional?, man if only Ernst and Morit talked, ooh you betcha, pre-The Bitch of Living, they could HEAL TOGETHER, why do i keep writing fics where Ernst cries and Hnaschen comforts him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-10 12:10:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19905496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vallierdetilly/pseuds/vallierdetilly
Summary: Hanschen looks at him with a concerned visage as if something suddenly clicked within his mind."Ernst, is everything alright?" he asks the taller classmate, and Ernst tries to shrug it off as if he doesn't care."It is, yes," he subdues a bit too rapidly to be truthful. "Just forget I said anything."He walks ahead of Hanschen, stopped when Hanschen gently grabs onto his arm. He spins around to face Hanschen, who's plump lips are slightly parted. If Ernst wasn't so mournful, he might've collapsed onto the weathered gravel right then and there."Ernst, wait. Tell me."





	dinner at eight

**Author's Note:**

> these fanfics are a coping mechanism because my musical theatre bfa program in college is holding auditions for Spring Awakening in September and I literally want to be Ernst more than I've wanted anything in my life sljkdhjdhkflhgkslhjdk
> 
> fic title/fic is inspired by Dinner at Eight by Rufus Wainwright (coincidentally my audition song for the show)
> 
> as always, thank you so so much for reading and kudos/comments are always appreciated!!!! follow my tumblr of the same name if you want to as well :)

The pot roast prepared by Frau Robel is a healthy, rotund size, more than sufficient to feed the family of three - and their miniature kitten. 

Ernst prods at the plate in front of him with his fork, his appetite weakened with the full awareness of his father's eyes boring into his forehead without even needing to raise his glance. He swings his feet underneath his chair in anxiety, the pump back and forth easing his nerves. When Herr Robel clears his throat, he knows that he must acknowledge him.

Sure enough, when Ernst looks forward, Herr Robel is also letting the roast go cold, his full attention on his son. Ernst gives him a meek smile and a small nod. Anything needed to calm the tension.

"Ernst," his father says, an ersatz warmth in his bass. Ernst blinks.

"Yes, papa?" he replies.

"How was school?"

Such a simple question manages to throw Ernst into a dizzy, his mind racing to create an answer that would please his father.

"It was alright," he manages to respond without stuttering. "We've started to learn about the Aeneid. It's very interesting."

"That sounds lovely, Ernst," Frau Robel interjects, swallowing a bite of lettuce and dabbing at her mouth with her napkin.

"The Aeneid. Latin is not your strongest, is it," Herr Robel states - not a question, but a remark. Ernst chuckles it away, pretending that it didn't churn his gut.

"It's not, but I am trying my best," he says, optimistically. He is getting better at it, but maybe not at the rate that Herr Sonnenstich would prefer.

"It would appear so."

This is the cause and effect of the Robel family. They do not scream out loud at each other, nor do they hit and make a fuss; Ivo Robel is too much of a holy man to ever resort to such barbarity. Instead, their blows are subtle, hidden behind an emotionless smile and a bitter selection of dinner.

Ernst isn't sure when his relationship with his father became so treacherous. He could surmise that it likely happened when he first started classes at the gymnasium and his parents caught on that he was struggling academically. 

What seems more likely to him, however, is that he simply isn't the man that his father wants him to be. His light, airy voice is a sharp contrast to his other male relatives, who all sound ready to give a sermon at the drop of a hat. He isn't particularly assertive, either; he is passive, prone to blushing and fidgeting, far more outwardly kind than his relatives. Never once has he been asked by his father about how he enjoys carrying the medicine ball.

"Frau Krautheim passed by our house today with a basket of bread for us," his mother announces, cutting through the friction.

Ernst smiles, turning to face her. "That sounds lovely, mama. What kind of bread?"

"Baguettes," she answers, glancing down at her plate. "You must know her daughter, yes?"

"Anna?" Ernst confirms. "Yes, mama. I do. We've been friends for years."

Anna Krautheim and Ernst are very similar in their mannerisms. They both go to church, they both do their homework (albeit, Anna fares much better), they both listen to their parents. Typical good children.

"Why, yes," his father speaks up. "She is quite pretty, don't you think?"

Ernst hesitates. 

Anna is quite pretty - dark brown pupils, jet black hair almost always put in two pigtails, a warm grin - but Ernst would never think about _marrying_ her. 

Ernst would never think about marrying any girl he knows.

He knows that he has strange passions he shouldn't have. He can't quite understand them, but he knows they're there, like a lurking shadow that follows him through the woods when he walks home from the church. They are there when he is in the shower after physical education, the other boys' back muscles leaving him awash with desire. He feels them looking at the Greco-Roman statues in his textbook. And he detects his pulse quickening when his imagination carries him far away from their town. 

He wouldn't dare tell anyone else about what he feels, for he senses that with his sin, major consequences await. Possibly a visit to jail, or a banishment from Freising. 

Perhaps worst of all, the abandonment of his God.

Ernst stews in his seat at the table, two expectant pairs of eyes on him as he hides the inner workings of his heart.

"Yes. Very."

Herr Robel nods, appreciative. "I am glad you think so, son."

"You never know, Ernst. Maybe she thinks you're quite handsome," Frau Robel adds, a tiny giggle escaping her.

"Mama, I'm not very handsome," Ernst sniffles. His mother gasps in extravagance, her husband rolling his eyes at her and Ernst's playful converse.

"You could stand to gain a few pounds of muscle."

Ernst and Frau Robel turn to face the man. He is not all that intimidating physically, Ernst reaching a full four inches taller that him. His piousness makes him appear much larger than he really is.

"Well, Ernst, you are just a pile of bones. It is unlike the Robels," he continues, his mouth shamefully glued downwards. "Think about your cousin, Kristoff. He is as tall as you, if not more. Yet, farm work has made him strapping and robust."

Ernst doesn't have anything to say to the confirmation of what the man who raised him believes his son to be. He feels a tear begin to sting in his eye, but takes a deep breath to choke it back inside.

"And, I am not the only one that thinks so. Your uncle believes so as well."

His mother also doesn't speak.

"It is simply not like us."

Ernst closes his eyes, fingernails digging into the palm of his hand.

Finally, he snaps like a column under too much weight.

"It is like me," he whispers, hoping that his sentiment went unheard.

He can tell by the stunned silence that it didn't, immediately filled with regret.

"Pardon me?" Herr Robel interrogates.

Ernst's stomach is filled with a sinking feeling, as if he is tumbling down a long hole in the earth into an underworld he isn't acquainted with. "Nothing, papa."

"It is like you, you say?" his father continues to interrogate, any warmth in his voice absent. "What does _that_ mean, exactly?"

"Papa," Ernst breathes, his forehead turning hot. "I-"

"It is like you? What makes you believe that this town, no, that this _family_ cares what is like _you_?" Herr Robel grills, growing continually louder until it is echoing around the dining room. He has never been this loud, Ernst notices.

Frau Robel attempts to put her hand on his shoulder soothingly. "Ivo, please, calm down, I am sure he didn't mean-"

"Not now, Gertrude," he barks, the woman pulling her hand away as if she was shocked and quietly shifting back into her seat. "It seems our son has suddenly grown bold, has he not?"

"I have not, Papa, I'm sorry," Ernst apologizes, his timbre wracked with oncoming sobs. 

"No, you are not sorry. Are you?" He slams his fist down onto the plate, a first for Herr Robel. Both Ernst and his mother jump, disturbed at the volatile outburst.

"Very, Papa, ver-"

"Away to bed, Ernst," his father interjects, his head turned away from the table's other occupants in disgust. 

"But Papa!" Ernst whimpers, quivering in his seat.

"Ivo, surely he can finish his dinner," Frau Robel assures him, to no avail.

"No, Gertrude," he bites, directing his sour energy towards Ernst yet again. "You, to bed. Think about what you've done."

"Please, Papa, may I-"

"To bed, Ernst."

Ernst is frozen, glancing at his mother for any sign of hope. She only apologetically nods in the direction of his bedroom in defeat. Crushed, Ernst silently stands up from the table, pushes his chair in, and walks towards his room.

When he closes his door, he throws himself down onto his bed and begins to weep, dousing his pillow with flushed tears. His lanky form curls up into a ball, weak fingers in weak fists gripping the sheets for comfort. He desperately clings onto the hope that his father - or more likely, his mother - will creak the door open and run their fingers through his rich-chocolaty hair while they place his head on their lap and tell him stories of life before he was born. Yet, with each passing minute, he knows they will never come comfort him. He is left alone for tonight.

 _This is not family_ , he thinks to himself. _It can't be like this for everyone._

Ernst spends most of the night praying out loud to Him for forgiveness before he eventually falls asleep, bedsheets still damp.

~~~~~~~~~~

"Men, I expect you to have written twenty lines of Horace from memory in the next fifteen minutes. Begin."

Ernst is barely able to pay attention to Herr Sonnenstich's assignment the next day, his mind filled with his father's booming retorts from the night before.

He subtly looks around the room at his classmates. _What are their fathers like? Do they feel warmth?_

His eyes fix on Melchior Gabor, to his left in the row ahead of him. The golden boy of the gymnasium, with sweeping blond hair, light blue eyes, and a fantastic academic track record, Ernst is sure that he has a perfectly fine connection with his papa. Perfect, just like the rest of his life.

Next to Melchior and directly in front of him is Moritz Stiefel, a tiny young man with a angry red shock of tresses on the top of his head. If anyone is as bad at school as Ernst, it is Moritz. Yet, they are only friendly to each other, catching up and trading accounts when they can before Herr Stiefel heaves him away to the bank he works at.

Maybe their fathers are truly quite similar, he ponders. 

He keeps looking around the stuffy classroom and stops when he unexpectedly locks eyes with his most mysterious friend, the student sitting in the front row.

Hanschen Rilow is not originally from Freising. A semi-recent transfer from Berlin, Hanschen carries a worldly knowledge with him that even Melchior could only aspire to obtain. He shares Melchior's sturdy build, yet is graced with deep grey orbs, sandy brown locks, and spotless tan skin. He is quite a bit more confident and charming than Ernst, and yet they spend a rather common amount of time together.

Ernst cannot comprehend why such a beautiful boy would want to be in his presence, but he welcomes it, even if Hanschen is the utmost factor of his clandestine stirrings.

Hanschen nods when they acknowledge each other, a small smirk on his lips as he turns back to make sure Herr Sonnenstich isn't paying attention. When he looks back, Ernst hopes that his bright pink blush has dimmed.

" _Let_ _me walk you home?_ " Hanschen mouths, and Ernst grins, nodding cheerfully. Hanschen returns with a full-toothed beam, his eyes crinkled. Ernst can't believe how lucky he is that the older boy shows him the more light-hearted side of himself that rarely anyone else sees. If he should be considered lucky, that is.

When Herr Sonnenstich turns away from the blackboard towards the rows of students, both boys lower their faces back down to their books on instinct.

~~~~~~~~~~

Copies of The Aeneid in their satchels, Ernst and Hanschen silently amble along the dusty road towards the Robel house. The sun beats down on them, Hanschen wiping the sweat off his forehead with the wrist of his blazer.

The blazer fits Hanschen perfectly, Ernst extremely aware of how his muscles fill out the arms. He stops himself from glancing over at Hanschen too often, but he can't take his eyes off of him, nervous that merely even a second later he will have disappeared like a ghost.

Ghosts barely haunt in the daytime, however.

As Ernst averts his glance away from Hanschen again, Hanschen looks at him.

"So, Ernst," Hanschen starts, the sound of Hanschen saying his name sending chills through Ernst's entire being. "What do you think of Horace?"

"Oh, um. I think I like Virgil better," Ernst flusters, "but Horace is alright. The Aeneid... it's just so epic."

Hanschen smiles at his answer, kicking rocks off the pathway into the nearby vineyard. "Yes. I think so as well." 

"You do?"

"Why, yes," he replies. "I must say, though, I can't wait for Homer. I love Achilles and Patroclus."

Ernst doesn't quite know what Hanschen is talking about, but it makes it heart race nonetheless. The boys are supposed to learn about Homer in a month or so; Hanschen must have been educated about it already while in Berlin.

"I don't believe I know Achilles and Patroclus. Or any Homer, for that matter," Ernst admits softly, his pace decreasing. Hanschen turns back towards him and simpers.

"I think you'd really like it, Ernst," he says, a winning twinkle in his eye. "But that's just a feeling."

They continue along the path for a moment or so before Ernst gulps. He starts to speak, but hesitates long enough for Hanschen to notice.

"Yes?" he asks, and Ernst still says nothing. "What is it?"

 _Here goes nothing_ , Ernst muses.

"What is your relationship with your father like?" he asks. Hanschen's eyes widen a bit, and Ernst promptly becomes sheepish. He stresses that he made Hanschen upset, treading on undeclared ground.

"I know it's kind of an odd question, but I was just curious," he continues, and Hanschen smiles.

"Well, since you really want to know," Hanschen offers, a bit teasingly, "I don't think it's anything remarkable. I rarely see him since he takes business trips to my hometown sometimes, but when I do, it's pleasant enough."

Ernst considers this, nodding thoughtfully. He's pleased that Hanschen's home life manages along better than his, that Hanschen doesn't feel the same turmoil that he comprehends so well, but he still yearns to know _more_. "Does he put a lot of pressure on you?"

"I guess he does," Hanschen counters. "I would be a little apprehensive if he didn't."

"Really?" Ernst queries, and Hanschen looks at him with a concerned visage as if something suddenly clicked within his mind.

"Ernst, is everything alright?" he asks the taller classmate, and Ernst tries to shrug it off as if he doesn't care.

"It is, yes," he subdues a bit too rapidly to be truthful. "Just forget I said anything."

He walks ahead of Hanschen, stopped when Hanschen gently grabs onto his arm. He spins around to face Hanschen, who's plump lips are slightly parted. If Ernst wasn't so mournful, he might've collapsed onto the weathered gravel right then and there.

"Ernst, wait. Tell me."

Ernst dithers, taking a deep sigh.

"My father raised his voice at me and my mama yesterday," he confesses. "And he's never done that before."

"Why would he do that?" Hanschen furrows his eyebrows more.

"I don't know," Ernst says. "Maybe he was having a bad day?"

"It doesn't matter if he was having a bad day. He shouldn't do that," Hanschen corrects, and Ernst's eyes well up again.

"Even if he doesn't raise his voice, he's always so cold with me," he laments. "He puts so much pressure on me."

They've stopped walking at this point, the two boys standing in the middle of the road. Ernst buries his face in his hands, Hanschen calmly taking in the flood of emotion.

"Does he?" Hanschen takes a step closer to Ernst, asking so quietly Ernst can barely hear him.

"All the time. He thinks I should be more like my cousin, or my uncle, or the other men in my family. My devotion to my religion isn't enough for him. He doesn't like who I am at all," Ernst mewls. "I can't help but feel like my father is going to bring about the end of the world."

"Here, here," Hanschen lulls, pulling him off the road and into the cool shade of a tall oak tree. "Your father shouldn't be saying that to you."

Ernst leans against the tree, the bark rubbing against his shoulder and grounding him. "He shouldn't be?"

Hanschen shakes his head. "Absolutely not. No father should put that garbage into their child's head, especially not when that child is as kind as you."

Ernst removes his hands from his face, his gaze deep into Hanschen's eyes. "Huh?"

"Ernst, do you think I would be here if you weren't kind? If you weren't a good friend?" Hanschen comforts him. "I don't think you should have to be what your father says, or what any of the men in your family say. I, for one, perfectly enjoy your company just the way you are, Ernst. More than any of the other boys at our gymnasium, I might add if I wanted to be really honest." 

Ernst is embarrassed to have cried in front of Hanschen: a friend, yes, but not quite a best friend. His father would disapprove of such a sincere outpour from him. Even though, Hanschen's words of affirmation have assauged him enough that the tears have stopped forming in his eyes, only wet stains of salt leaving a trail to his chin. He cannot find it within him to muster a happy expression yet, but at least he attempts to.

He _is_ lucky to see this side of Hanschen.

"Here, Ernst. I'm going to take you to my house for a little while," Hanschen proposes, wiping Ernst's remaining tears with the same sleeve he wiped his forehead. "My mother baked fresh cookies today, and she said they would be waiting for me when I arrived at home after school."

"And she'll let me come over?" Ernst asks. "Will your father?"

Hanschen inclines his head, a bittersweet smile curving his mouth.

"I think we've had enough talk of fathers for today, yes?"

Ernst sniffs a few more times, the fresh air cleansing his lungs. 

"I think so."

He takes a final glance at Hanschen, and allows his friend to pull him away from the tree and towards the sun until they both disappear into the horizon.


End file.
